


Quick, kiss the cook

by winterysomnium



Series: Restaurant AU [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, Getting Together, Heith - Freeform, M/M, Ratatouille is mentioned, Shallura is mostly mentioned, anything else to tag?, for me I guess, kinda slow burn, mostly from Keith's point of view, restaurant AU, the head chef and part time waiter fall in love over a box of home made ice cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 04:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8476108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: or he’ll do it himself, no really, he will. (aka the head chef and part time waiter fall in love over a box of homemade ice cream)(finished, main piece of the series, other parts will be sequels if I post any)





	

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you goes to mylittleskeletons, for talking to me about Heith and motivating me to write this AU. Another thank you goes to varevare, for reading this AU and reviewing it!  
> This story was really fun to write and it was comforting to me, really, writing the story. I hope to post some more of this AU sometime.  
> Can be found on my tumblr winterysomnium, too.  
> Thank you for reading and hope you will enjoy the story!

On the warmest day of summer, Keith drops a plate of expensive, vulnerable china, barely a week into his part time job and Lance seems stuck between being exasperated and feeling just a little bit sorry for him, finding the broom as Keith picks up the porcelain, his embarrassingly transparent shame, stuck between the shards, the cold feeling of disappointing someone he wanted to be flawless for, someone he wanted to be proud of him.

(There’s Shiro, somewhere at an university three countries over, there’s Allura, who’s going to own this restaurant in about two years, and there’s Hunk, who he met just under a week ago and who wasn’t put off by Keith’s awkward, stiff, painfully shy behaviour, not even once.)

“Hunk, we need another BBQ burger special, pronto!” Lance leans into the kitchen, Keith throws away the messy crash of clumsy fingers and gravity and he meets Hunk’s face, his soul so open to everyone, his fingertips the calmest motions Keith has ever seen. It feels dizzying, hotter than the heat, than the first sips of tea, than sun dry beach sand, watching Hunk, being vibrant, alive, brave.

“Was something wrong with the previous one?” Hunk asks, anxiously and it spills across the soles of Keith’s feet, turns his lungs into a cave in, into buried mines.

“I’m sorry; it was me. I ruined your food. I dropped it,” Keith says, a confession, unlocking another smile, crossing the fields of Hunk’s mouth; he gives Keith an easy, small wave.

“Nah, it’s all good. Happens to me too,” he assures him and Keith senses the kindest of lies, tenderly placed onto his shoulders, raising them up.

“I find that hard to believe,” Keith answers, grateful for the humanity Hunk never loses, never seems to forget, never seems to not wear.

(Keith hasn’t met people like Hunk, before. He’s never been this conscious of a person, never this stubbornly trying to fit here, to be better at his smiles, his words, his pace. It makes his heartbeat too loud.)

((It makes his throat feel even louder, somehow.))

“Uh, guys, rush hour? Focus, okay? Keith, help me out with table six,” Lance shares a ticket with him, Hunk disappears into the flicker of fire and fast sizzling and Keith becomes a ghost of Lance’s motion, a shadow of his weight, weaving patterns of heavy trays and windy spots of the cooler’s paths, pins up an expression of familiarity, of wishes come true.

He works through his lunch, takes a bathroom break to stretch the ache out of his feet, out of his cramping fingers, his shift ends in half an hour and he’s rushing to replace a dried out pen when something cold hits his neck, something freezing; he nearly knocks the iced tea out of Hunk’s hand.

“I’ve got your lunch ready,” Hunk tells him, the damp glass pressed to Keith’s neck and Keith clicks the pen, currents of thoughts discarded throughout his muscles, he clicks the pen, one more time, to not forget, to not abandon where he’s supposed to be, where he’s not supposed to go.

“Thanks. I’ll just take care of an order and get it,” he promises, Hunk nods and Keith smudges the watery reflection on his neck, feels his ears sting with warmth.

Twenty minutes later Lance tells him to go get lunch and get out of there and shyly, painfully unsteady, Keith walks into the kitchen, his fingers sore and his mouth raw, as he unties his waiter gear.

“Hey,” he says, to the curves of Hunk’s back, to his elbows and the scent of his homemade, creamy, meltingly soft apple pie, and Hunk places the last of the steak onto the plate and wipes his hands, sends the plate to the next shift, replacing Keith, replacing early dinners with heavier plates, leads him with a playful talk.

“Hey! I was starting to think we were being dumped here.” He opens the oven, Keith’s lunch kept hot and fresh in one of them and Keith watches him carefully, watches him, openly, asking: “We?”, stopping his efforts to retie his hair, to keep a strand tucked in.

“This plate of lasagna and I,” Hunk explains and Keith smiles, balancing the plate as he finds some clean cutlery -- just a fork, really -- and then grabs the iced tea Hunk brought earlier, cool and sweet.

“Busy day?”

“Yeah. And hot,” Keith nods, sitting down at the little, clean area reserved for staff, idly looking forward to finally opening his locker and taking off his work shirt, clinging to him like a blanket, cotton insulation where he doesn’t want it at all, and he hopes the air conditioning will kick in properly after the repair, tomorrow afternoon.

“ It sure is. I heard they are going to repair the air conditioning tomorrow though, so, fingers crossed,” Hunk assures, crossing his fingers, partly hiding his smile, partly exposing the little curls at the end of his mouth and Keith hides behind his glass of ice tea, somehow unsure of everything this world has to offer, right now.

“How’s the lasagna?” Hunk asks, peeking out of the kitchen again, two appetizers later, and Keith feels too clumsy, too graceless for his fork.

“It’s perfect.”

“Good! That’s good!” Hunk grins and then disappears, a hushed presence made of footsteps and the sound of knives, of words that encourage, that lead.

Keith changes and returns the plate, waves them goodbye and before he can leave, there’s a securely wrapped packet dropped into his palms; Hunk’s looking at him, nearly nervously, nearly scared.

“What’s this?” Keith asks and Hunk wipes his fingers, into a towel, doesn’t avoid Keith’s stare.

“Leftovers. You look like you could use them,” he says and then fidgets, waves his hand around, a smudge in front of Keith’s face. “I don’t mean that in a bad way! But it’s like, we’d throw them out anyway and there’s at least two portions left and you can just reheat them in the microwave though I do recommend the oven, it just leaves more of the taste than nuking it, you know, and -- I’ve probably overwhelmed you, didn’t you.” He stops, quickly, and Keith tries to find his own words, again.

“A little. Did someone tell you I’m homeless or something?”

Hunk follows his mouth, unsure. “Um, no? Wait, are you?”

“No.”

“Good. Okay. So,” he tugs at the top of his chef coat, smoothes out a crease. “It’s fine if you don’t want the extra food, I just thought it could make a good lazy dinner or -- or something like that.” He smiles, sheepishly, like he’s thinking he insulted Keith, like he’s thinking he did something wrong.

Keith shakes his head, rights the wrongs. “No, I’ll, I’ll take it. Unless someone else usually gets to have it?”

“Nah, they’re good.”

“Okay.” Keith nods, holds onto the packet, thinks about Hunk’s fingers, wrapped around it, too.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. See you on Thursday?”

“See you,” Keith answers, stepping out of the back door and even if the restaurant and Hunk’s kitchen and Hunk’s kind, kind smiles are tens of heartbeats away, they keep warming his fingers, his mouth, the bottom of his hips.

It becomes something Hunk does, when their shifts meet.

It’s more when they end their shifts together, stopping to talk at the lockers, finishing the rest of a pie from the tin, the two of them and Lance and one time, Keith steps close to Hunk one early morning and grabs his chef hat, lifting it far enough to see Hunk’s work messy hair, saying: “Huh. No rat.” like he’s been wondering for ages (he has), Hunk barely blinking at him, his shoulders shaking with a breathy laugh, and when Keith crowns him again, softly, his fingers brush the tip of Hunk’s ear.

It’s about a month later, as Keith walks towards his rusty car, looking for his keys, buried somewhere in the pocket of his jeans, another lunch of tomorrow expanding a warmth through his palm and bones and blood, when Keith realizes it’s not all admiration, not all respect, he feels unfolding inside of him.

 (It’s want, too, it’s a weird sense of longing and already being there, it’s a nervous laugh after a long night of looks and brushes and words, of let me and please, it’s the thoughts of Hunk’s arms, slung across his shoulders, for a photo on Lance’s phone.)

It’s five weeks and a drowsy, Monday dinner service later, that Keith figures things out.

He has a crush on Hunk.

(He has a crush on the White Lion’s head chef.)

\---

“Compliments to the chef,” Keith announces, opening the door with the flat of his shoulder, slipping through with the mixture of a meal well done, plates, empty, glasses, drunk, cutlery on a heap.

“The steak was ‘gorgeous’ and the dipped fries ‘the best thing they’ve eaten in a year’. They really liked the graham apple pie, too.”  Keith pushes the remains of the lunch into the sink, pins a scribbled onto note onto the corkboard they keep in the staff area and Hunk’s face turns to pastel, pressed reds; he helplessly trails his half made steps after Keith.

“You don’t have to write all of them down. Or pin them to the board. It’s taking up a lot of space on there,” Hunk protests, meekly, and Keith scrunches up his eyebrows, like he doesn’t know why.  

“I want to,” he says, fiddles with an itch behind his ear.

“But -- the space.”

“The engine of a car takes up a lot of space too. The kitchen is the engine room of a restaurant. You said that.”

“Yes, but -- it just needs to be _intact_ , that’s all.”

“Does pinning too many paper notes to a corkboard deconstruct the fabric of reality?” Keith asks, skimming the rows of the notes with his fingers, flickers his attention to the renewed paint, suspiciously, to the hum of the outside, trickling through the underneath of the door.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Hunk chuckles, Lance stirring the lull of the afternoon with a ticket that has gotten stuck halfway, dragging Keith to the supply room and when they drop by again, Hunk is rearranging an order of three chocolate cakes and a blueberry sorbet, and he points at Keith with a spoon, laughing fondly when he puts up his hands and asks: “What am I getting arrested for?” and Hunk wishes for more time than this, for more than evening tired walks to Hunk’s car.

“Nothing yet. But don’t think for _one second_ that you’ll get away with missing your lunch break like yesterday, mister.”

“Okay.” Keith nods, amused, and Hunk is 91% sure Lance is rolling his eyes, somewhere to the side of them, holding the door open with his foot.

“C’mon Kogane, the sorbet will melt,” he calls and Keith dissipates into the noise of the dining room, a ticket prints itself beside Hunk’s shoulder and someone curses, a noise followed by clatter, by water being spilled.

(Hunk rushes to help.)  

\---

Keith gets stuck in traffic, Sputnik coughs, weakly, and he had to replace the oil yesterday, had to correct the pressure of Sputnik’s tires and now his gasoline goes low, stuck at an endless crossroads; he might not even be there before everyone’s gone.

It’s nearly an hour after the Lion’s closed, the reddest of stars a signal across the deserted tables, the alarm already set, Lance must have gone home by now but there’s a spill across the back alley, artificial suns and unlocked doors.

Hunk’s there, in the locker room, he’s holding Keith’s copy of _The Naked Sun_ , dressed for home, headphones curling around his skull, Keith’s forgotten essay lost to the world in the bottom of his locker and he’s relieved and guilty, all at once.

“I’m so late,” he blurts out and Hunk starts, wears his headphones like a necklace, rather than a crown, finds a smile on his lips.

“Keith, you’re here! I was starting to worry.” 

“You waited for me.”

“ _Duh_. Can’t have you failing your class,” Hunk answers, so easily, Keith can’t help that breathless expand of feeling, that inner punch against his throat.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks, to hide how his ribs might implode on him, on his reckless lungs.

“No, I’ll just drop by to return the keys in the morning,” Hunk assures him, and Keith nods, feels a little less heavy, a little less dread.

“Okay,” he says as he rescues his paper and when he closes the locker door, the metal sound reminiscent of school hallways and a sense of alienation, Hunk is steering him to a chair next to his own, says: “Dig in,” and Keith picks up a spoon, held against Hunk’s thumb, the colours of the home made gelato and carefully crafted sorbets too inviting, too wonderfully cold to refuse.

“How do you like the book?” Keith asks, taking a good chunk of the strawberry mango portion of the ice cream and around his spoon stuck in between his teeth, Hunk hums, smiling at the book cover, warmly.

“I love it.”

“There’s a movie, too.”

“Is it good?”

“It’s good.”

“Should watch it then.”

“I had a copy but I suspect my brother took it with him when he moved,” Keith says and just the hours of miles between them makes him miss Shiro intensely, like a memory of a fractured bone, being reset.

“Whoa, wait, brother?” Hunk asks and Keith’s being grounded, by the softness in his voice.

“Yeah. He’s Allura’s boyfriend.”

“You’re _Shiro’s_ brother?”

“Not by blood, exactly. But he became my legal protector, took me out of the orphanage, when I was sixteen,” he explains, between a bite of a freezing Rocky Road, between a bite of something colder, missing someone, someone he cares for, a lot.

“I … I didn’t know,” Hunk admits, like he’s ashamed, like he’s missed something important, something big.

Keith shrugs.

“I know you didn’t. I didn’t tell.”

“Is it … is it a sore subject?”

“No, not really. I’ve had a long time to accept that no one’s coming for me. And Shiro doing that -- that was a good thing.”

Hunk nods, solemnly, their spoons clash, Keith’s mouth feels hot.

“I’m an only child,” Hunk says, flicking his spoon against the cup, in a motion of thought. “But Lance and I grew up living next door to each other, so I was basically one of his siblings, anyway.”

“You’re good friends.”

“We are. The best,” Hunk agrees and Keith ignores the raw, lonely ache, the fear of never not feeling cold, at the thought of family, of home, of favourite meals, of things done just for you.

He’s convinced himself he has lost it, has left it under his bed in the orphanage, when he was fifteen and Shiro looked for him, week after week; he’s convinced himself one person that loves him is enough.

But now there’s one person more, a person _Keith_ loves and there’s a craving, a love that scares him, like when he first started thinking of boys, alone and needy and guilty, guilty about the wrong things, guilty about images he’d see asleep, guilty about touches, spoken about into his pillow, guilty about getting into fights, just to prove himself wrong.

His guilt used to taste like cotton and blood and raw knuckles, used to be scented after showers and sheets.

Now his guilt is borrowed books, freezing mouths, words melting into sorbets made of the earth.

Now his guilt isn’t guilt at all.

(Now it’s love.)

\---

Rush hours grow into rush days, as they slip into the season of spicy, hot soups and sweet, autumn flavoured drinks and that’s when Pidge shows up, helping out at the weekends and Friday nights, and she’s a friend Keith has, Shiro’s known her since she was born and she spends her afternoons at Shiro’s couch across from Keith, where it’s quiet and friendly and they study with each other, they share a distant homesickness and to her, nothing about Keith is a secret, anymore.

 _Are we going to talk about Hunk?_ she texts him, after the longest weekend he’s had.

(Keith takes an eternity to reply.)

_Not yet._

\---

“Man, you’re so lovesick it makes _me_ want to eat a whole box of chocolates and watch Bridget Jones and cry,” Lance huffs, helping him sweep up the milk Hunk’s just spilled all over the counter and their rough, off white kitchen tiles, trying to fix the thick consistence of the rice pudding he’s baking, a comfort food, one of his Mom’s recipes; Hunk scoops up a cup of soggy rice.

“It’s just -- it won’t happen, you know,” Hunk says, thoughtful, and Lance throws up his arms.

“Hunk. _Hunk_. He writes down _every_ compliment you get for your food. _Every day_.”  

“He’s a nice person.”

“A nice -- a _nice person_? Seriously, dude? Do I have to give you the idiot sandwich lecture again?” Lance threatens and Hunk sighs, tiredly, against Lance’s disbelief, against his pressuring look.

“He’s _pretty_ , Lance. Like, he would probably win America’s Next Top Model if he wanted to. And he does _karate_. I -- I _bake_.”

“Yet what he _wants_ , is to make out with you for like, three hours straight,” Lance insists, snatching up the cup of rice out of Hunk’s hand. “And you’re pretty too, dude, I’ve never seen _one_ bad photo of you.”

“But the Lion’s so busy now and if we made it awkward, it would be, like, _really bad_. And awkward. And bad.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “The Lion’s _always_ busy. You’re just being dumb about this.”

“Just -- just leave it for now? Please, Lance. It’s not a good time,” Hunk pleads, quietly, and Lance wonders if he could lock the two of them in the supply room, after hours, and get away with it without being murdered the next day, as he starts washing the cup, using just a little too much soap.

(Probably not.)

\---

Hunk stumbles into the dining area, dejected, panicked, before they restaurant even opens, scares a salt shaker out of Keith’s hand and he’s having the worst day; right about now.

“Hunk! I thought you were supposed to be at the competition today.” Keith walks out to meet him, halfway, and he’s biting worry into his mouth, an imprint of teeth. “Are you okay?”

“My car won’t start!” Hunk blurts out, with a tremor in his throat, shaking his voice, his bones, all the way to his fingertips. “It was fine when I drove up here and I have gas and everything and I just went here to get a spare jacket and now it won’t start and -- and Lance isn’t here because he’s got that cold and -- and I can’t walk back to our apartment to get his car because it would take too long and -- and a taxi might be way too expensive and -- I -- I need to breathe,” he gasps, painfully and Keith unsurely holds his shoulder, gently, and Hunk -- Hunk’s probably crying, already.

He sniffs.

(Yep.)

 “You’ll make it,” Keith says, within a second, like the future is something accessible, like it’s not impossible to know, to visit, like it’s just a stairway away and he’s gone for a minute, a source of little, cluttered noise, and then he’s back, offering his hand.

“Take my car.”

“What? No -- Keith, I can’t take your car.”

“I know it’s practically rust on wheels but it will get you there. It will.”

“What if I crash it?”

“It doesn’t even have a proper paint job,” Keith says, firm, presses the keys to Hunk’s palm.  “Take my car. If anything happens, I know where you work, remember?” He smiles and despite the panic, freezing his bones, Hunk laughs.

“Okay. I’ll -- I’ll be careful,” he promises and Keith wishes him good luck, wishes the soft dip of Hunk’s palm would stay out of his mind, wishes it will never leave.

The backdoor swings open, hours later, Keith’s barely put on his T-shirt when he’s lifted off his feet, pressed to Hunk’s softest places, to Hunk’s whole body, Hunk’s arms tightly holding him and he holds onto him, too, the best he can.

“I take it you won?” he asks, with a laugh stuck somewhere in his mouth and Hunk reconnects him with the earth, clasps Keith’s fingers into the curl of his own and they’re holding on, onto each other, longer than they should.

“We won!” Hunk whoops and there’s nothing better. nothing more beautiful, than Hunk’s face, right at that second.

(Keith returns Hunk’s smile.)

\---

“Hey, Keith, you got a minute?” Lance asks him, his fingers touch his elbow and he’s being lead to the coffee machine, to the scent of cocoa and tea.

“I wanted to thank you, for Hunk,” Lance says, looking like he’s been proven right, about a long forgotten theory, an argument finally won. “For letting him borrow your car and everything.”

Keith frowns, somehow off guard, without a clue what to say.

“Anyone would do that,” he says.

 (Apparently not a good answer; Lance groans, exasperated.)

“Geez, do you have to argue about everything with me? Can’t you just take the thank you for once, mullet head?”

“I wasn’t --”

“Look, maybe anyone _would_ have done it, but _you_ were the one who actually did, so, as Hunk’s friend and the manager of this place, I wanted to let you know it’s appreciated. That’s all. Meeting over. Shoo.”

“So were you thanking me or scolding me, I couldn’t tell towards the end of that,” Keith asks, his mouth quirking up, and then Lance’s saying something about strangling him and dumping him into the compost bin outside but Keith’s left to wonder about the details; his spanish isn’t too good.

He smirks, anyway.

\---

It all shatters apart within him when Hunk introduces their new sous chef, “our _another_ head chef,” Hunk insists and Shay smiles up at him fondly, the season approaching Christmas, White Lion’s booked until January and she’s their expert on vegetarian dishes, on seasonal spices and she’s just as brave, kind and skilled as Hunk, if not more.

“We’ve gone to cooking classes together,” Hunk explains, proudly, and Keith thinks someone like Shay is someone he can’t, doesn’t want to, compete with.

It’s easier now, somehow, too. It’s calming, knowing that what he’s built within himself, what he’s hiding in between his muscles and bones won’t ever resurface, won’t ever get to be touched by Hunk, won’t recover from being ruins, hollow with ache and sunny, bare spots; Keith ignores the dust, seeping into his blood.

It’s so easy, now that it’s impossible.

(It’s easy, now that it’s gone.)

\---

The only times it stings is when their routine gets derailed, like when Hunk and Shay work on a new menu for the after holiday months and Keith doesn’t get to ramble about discovered stars, Hunk won’t find him old pictures of the engineering projects he did in high school, he doesn’t get to walk him to Hunk’s car, doesn’t get tempted to kiss him under the universe, so dim and foggy in the travelling lights of the city, he doesn’t get to lean so so close Hunk’s hair tickles under his ear.

Shay does and Shay’s incredibly sweet and strong and she understands every foreign word Hunk sends her way, about the preparation of dinner meats and fresh breads, about chefs and their signature, about the perfect way to make a macaroon.

Keith has burned the only brownies he ever attempted to make, when he first moved in with Shiro, and he’s not as natural with the world like Shay is; sometimes he wonders if he’s a meteorite, dragged by the pull of the Earth, made to never quite understand people, as they are.

He doesn’t really get half the things he’s afraid of, himself, doesn’t understand what makes him feel so vulnerable, so human, when he hears Shay in the kitchen, assisting Hunk as he wraps up the leftovers, perfectly packed, for Keith, for the battles he fights willingly, _there’s some extra protein for you there, your match is this weekend, right?_ and he just wants to leave, when Shay says: “If you don’t know what to do with these, I’d love to take them. It would be a shame to throw them away!” and the awkward, embarrassed, flustered shift of Hunk’s voice makes him want to be out of there, out of the situation, out of the conflict he’s creating, without even being there.

“Actually, I usually give these to Keith. He lives alone and doesn’t have a lot of time to cook for himself,” Hunk says, the foil whispers against his palms. “But if you want to, I can give you half of it?” he adds, uncertain, and Keith walks out onto the street, dazed.

Half of anything of Hunk’s feels like not nearly enough, suddenly.

He’s in his car, lets the lights fade out, his fingers feel brittle and he doesn’t want to go anywhere, doesn’t want to lose sight of Hunk, doesn’t want to see him, when he’s just barely there.

Then there’s a knock on the glass of the passenger window and Keith jumps, Hunk’s illuminated by the contrast of the cloudless shades of the street and the sky, and Keith rolls down the window, leans across the shift stick and the seat; Hunk’s smiling, out of breath.

“You left without these.” He presents the distantly warm shape and Keith takes it, holds it, watches Hunk, as the cold paints vibrant colours, onto Hunk’s skin, his knuckles, his dry mouth.

“I forgot about them, I’m sorry,” he answers, and Hunk builds a shelter for his hands, in the pockets of his coat.

“No biggie,” Hunk grins and when Keith spots his face in the mirror, as he’s dropping his keys onto the hallway cupboard, he realizes he is smiling, too.

\---

They won’t see each other for Christmas, Shiro’s home a week before and on the 23rd, they drive up to Shiro’s parents’ house, Hunk’s present stayed hiding in Keith’s apartment and all that lingers is the hug Hunk gave him, tight, too short, caught between a goodbye and a hello and he’s missing him, always misses someone, stuck to him like gravity, like time.

It’s Christmas Day, early noon, when a text finds him, in the kitchen, as he shamelessly refills his cup with hot chocolate, Shiro’s on the phone with his grandparents and Keith feels like he’s sharing a secret, with himself, unlocking the screen.

From: Unknown

_Hi, Keith! Hunk here. (I got your number from Lance; I hope you don’t mind?) I wanted to wish you Merry Christmas! So: Merry Christmas! How is your parents’ house?_

(Somehow, a star found its home in Keith’s heart, in the past two seconds of his life.)

((Somehow, it doesn’t hurt, at all.))

To: Hunk

_Merry Christmas. I don’t mind. It’s good, so’s Shiro. They put me in charge of stirring the cranberry sauce. It’s homemade, I think youd like it._

From: Hunk

_That sounds awesome! Homemade’s the best._

From: Hunk

_Ugh, Lance took all the mittens in the house to stop me from checking on the turkey. Our oven is so unreliable sometimes with everyone cooking though!!_

To: Hunk

_He’s probably hiding them all in one place. Or he’s sat on them._

From: Hunk

_Good point. My quest for mittens has begun. Wish me luck!_

To: Hunk

_Good luck._

From: Hunk

_He hid them all under the couch cushions. The turkey is saved._

From: Hunk

_Turkey is doing good. Crispy and all._

To: Hunk

_Quest complete. Congratulations!_

From: Lance

_Stop indulging him!! He’s /stressing/ over poultry._

To: Lance

_Merry Christmas to you too, Lance._

Keith finishes, with a smirk, fills a second cup, opens the door with his elbow, shoves the cup under Shiro’s smile.

He’s happy.

(He’s happy, just like this.)

\---

The New Year’s Eve party is the coziest event, on the outskirts of the city, in a house with a glass roof and wooden floors, with just the handful of them and Shiro, spending the last of a year within each other’s companies, and Keith meets Coran, the owner of White Lion’s sister location, for the first time.

(He meets Hunk, too, in a dress shirt and a lovely, thin tie, out of the familiarity of his chef’s jacket and if there’s anything Keith wants to remember from this year, it’s this.)  

Shay is footsteps away in front of Hunk, kisses Keith’s cheek and smothers Pidge in a hug, welcomed and warm and Allura runs up to her; she hasn’t seen her in two weeks.

“It suits you, the suit,” Keith says, drunk on the atmosphere, on the littlest of touches, and Hunk fidgets, like he’s self consciously trying to fix a corner of his shirt.

“So do you,” he answers, shy, smiling, bold. “I mean -- it _suits_ you, too. The suit.” He breathes in, in the patterns of the sky.

“This place looks awesome,” he says and then Shiro calls for Keith, from across the dining room, and he loses Hunk, for the evening, never spots him alone.

“You should go to him,” Pidge nudges him when January is half a minute away, but Hunk’s arm is linked to Shay’s and when their teeth reaches one, Shay kisses Hunk’s cheek.

“I’m good,” Keith says, shakes his head, wipes away his doubt. “New Year high five?” He raises his hand and Pidge snorts, raising her own.

“Happy New Year, Astro boy.”

He grins.

_Happy New Year._

\---

The lights go out, the fireworks mesmerize, and when they’re all faded, smoky remnants, imprinted under their lashes, Lance trips over a chair, gracelessly, drags Allura down with him and Shiro holds onto Keith who stumbles into a table, knocks over someone else and then Lance yells out, startling Coran into a shriek, Pidge into a startle: “Team building exercise! Who finds the Lion’s logo the fastest in the sky wins!” and then they all lay on the floor, it warms the barest of their skin and on his left he has Shiro’s shoulder steadying his heart, the dust in his bones, and on the other side, there’s someone else, barely there to brush his fingers, to sense the sharp of their elbow and it’s Hunk (of course, _of course_ ), and when their fingers touch, neither pulls away, neither moves and Keith falls in love, all over again.

Keith falls for him, and Hunk isn’t letting him go.

Keith falls, and Hunk lets him.

(Keith falls.)

\---

Keith doesn’t know what’s so intimidating about Hunk’s apartment, what’s so dangerous about the two of them in it, alone, what about this place is pushing him apart, why he’s this nervous to meet Hunk’s (and Lance’s) home.

 _I’m here._ he types, into the glow of the screen and seconds later Hunk’s opening the door, bare foot and beautiful, in a tank top that shows him off in ways Keith hasn’t seen yet and despite Shay and impossible and _Hunk doesn’t feel you the way you do_ , Keith let his hope stay, shimmer, paint smiles into his mouth and he’s a secret away from kissing Hunk, raw.

They sit on the couch, they face each other and Keith unzips his backpack, finds what they are meeting for, even if Christmas is a memory, three weeks away.

“For you,” he says, and as Hunk unpacks the gloss of paper and string, Keith feels like he’s unfolding, too.

It’s not something expensive, it’s not intimate, but it has a woven fabric of meanings within, the unread copy of _The Naked Sun_ and the Ratatouille DVD and Hunk recognizes this, shows it in his laugh.

“I thought you might want your own copy. And, you know, Ratatouille,” Keith says, Hunk flips the DVD onto its back.

“So I’ll finally understand why you did with the hat thing?” Hunk asks and Keith nods.

“Yeah, for that.”

“I have -- I have something related, to this, for you, too, actually. It’s nothing that spectacular, but. Wait here,” Hunk tells him, seeps into the shapes of the kitchen and then he’s holding an envelope, cautiously sitting next to Keith, closer, offering the present, nervously.

Keith opens it, holds it, tenderly, disbelieving, it stitches his thoughts open, inside of his skull.

“It’s. It’s a recipe.”

“Yes.”

“A Ratatouille recipe.”

“Uh huh.”

‘For me?”

“I’ve made you a batch of it, too. It’s waiting in the oven. That’s why I couldn’t really give this to you earlier, it’s best when it’s fresh,” Hunk explains, with this sheepish, shy shrug and Keith just -- just wants him, wants this to be what it feels like, wants everything Hunk wants to give; he’s lost, so lost, inside of this apartment, right now, right here.

“ _Hunk_. This is --” this is time spent, on Keith, this is tastes and scents, just his, his and Hunk’s, this is something to confess.

Before the world can catch up, Keith grasps onto Hunk’s shoulders, kisses him, kisses him softly but his fingers feel bruised, Hunk’s shoulders tense and he’s kissing him, he’s pulling Keith into his lap, he’s setting him on fire, he’s waiting for him to drown.

And then a thought shoves them, away, away from each other, Keith jerks and pushes and gasps: “I made you cheat on Shay,” and Hunk’s eyes are impossibly focused, impossibly bright.

“You -- what?” he asks, kiss dazed; the ruins inside of Keith freeze.

“I kissed you,” he says, and they crumble, they wither with snow.

“You did.” Hunk nods, wary.

“But you’re dating Shay. I made you _cheat_ on her. I’m -- I’m sorry.”

“But I’m _not_ dating Shay,” Hunk frowns, straightens the horizon of his shoulders, of his neck. “I’m single. Like, super single. And I like you. And I like to _kiss_ you, too.”

“You’re not --”

“No.”

“And you like to --?”

“Definitely.”

Hunk nods, offers his arms, a tribute, to a deity unknown, to the collapse of civilization, to the ruins of them, in Keith, outside of him and Keith descends into him, slowly, sits between Hunk’s legs and Hunk’s thighs press against his knees and the bonfires of his heartbeat burn, fiercely, send flickers that settle under his teeth and he kisses Hunk, as if he’s begged to do so, as if he’s been begging, himself, as if his world is ending and Hunk’s his only shelter, his only home.

He kisses him, and Hunk whispers into his mouth, whispers into his skin, he whispers what he’s been wanting, too.

(The ruins in Keith resurface.)

((The ruins in him are rebuilt.))

\---

“Ugh, geez guys, get a room!” Lance groans, Hunk might yelp against Keith’s face and Keith’s pressed against his locker, fingers intertwined in the cotton of Hunk’s jacket and he rolls his eyes; this is the third time Lance has run into them, just this week.

“We _are_ in a room,” Keith says; Hunk watches him, fondly, and Lance lets out a frustrated sigh.

“Yes, you’re in the _locker_ room. As in the room _all_ of our staff uses? As in stop sucking faces here, already, _geez_ , man.”

“I was just saying goodnight,” Keith argues and Hunk finds the dip of his back, traces a tattoo of patterns, of the flow of his fingertips.

“That is actually true, Lance. It was just a kiss,” he agrees and Lance crosses his arms, holds up his arguments, high in his chest.

“Right, so you _weren’t_ practically licking his nostrils ten seconds ago.”

“That’s not even possible from that angle.”

“Also eww, Lance, that’s gross.” Hunk pulls a face and then Keith thinks, thinks about it, and Hunk points a finger at him, accusingly.

“Don’t even think about it, Keith.”

“Well, I’m curious about it now!”

“See what you have done, Lance?!”

“Um, excuse me, it’s _your_ weird boyfriend, not mine,” Lance says, and there’s an answer on Keith’s mouth but then Shay peeks in, curiously, “Hunk, are you getting dressed? I need some help here!” and Hunk scrambles to open his locker, guiltily, calling: “It’ll be just a minute, Shay, I promise!” and Keith helps him with the buttons, just so he can sneak in another touch, just so there’s little space between them, at least for this moment and Lance resupplies their stock, of sugary cubes, of fresh pomegranates.

In two days, Keith’s going to wake up to Hunk staying over, to shy gestures and the kindest of smiles, to the unknown print of Hunk’s sleeping shirt.

In two days, Keith will show him the sketches of the interiors for his finals and Hunk will fix his buzzing radio, in two days, he’ll have him for himself, again.

In two days, he’ll get more of Hunk’s time.

Keith says goodnight.

(He can’t wait.)


End file.
